Today, I received a "notice" from some "agency" in the EU about the legality of Google using cookies with my blog. As far as I am aware, I am not using any cookies and whatever might be "there" is on Google, not me. Rather than suspecting foul play or any legal hassles, I have decided to simply kill this thing off.
Whomever you are, EU Cookie Monster, I want nothing to do with you. Nobody in the EU reads this blog anyway, as evidenced in the traffic stats for the blog. Shit, for that matter, nobody, not even my friends here in the U.S. read it. Fuck Off And Die. This notice will stay up for 24 hours and then the blog will simply vanish. Or, "not." I still haven't gone past the "threat of cancellation" stage. It's probably some horseshit attempt to harass me anyway. The notice "looked legit" but, that doesn't mean Doodly Squat in this Moderne-Au-Go-Go World.
Potentially: "So long, Suckers."
I was going to write about it being Jerry Garcia's birthday, if he were still living. I guess it's still his birthday, even if he's dead. Mine is coming up next week, if I'm still alive. Of course I'll still be alive. Dying would be too damned easy and cowardly...
I wake up early, most days. Like, 04:00 early. The birds aren't even making any noise outside when I get up, wash my face and hands, clear the slate of naughty or weird dreams and their characters. Last night's dream life was no exception. 12 frames of Weird. All the usual suspects: A couple of dead Friends made cameo's, there was a naked Redhead that was completely out of Left Field (Why the Hell was she naked? Not that it was an unappreciated image.) There was some Futuristic Scene going on and people wandered in and out of the "Train Station" looking environment. I was trying like mad to get the Redhead to come lay down with me, as I was in a bed and nobody else was. She was naked, right? Only she and I were: "dressed for bed." She wandered in and out of the dream, held hands with me once and gave me a wonderful kiss.
Freud would have a fucking party in my dreams. Unless he was peering out of the drawn curtains waiting for the Space Police to show up. You've seen people that get paranoid on cocaine, right? It's quite annoying. My weirdest dreams happen when I wake up in the middle of the night and my back hurts. I take 5mg's of Codeine and go back to sleep. The dreams are just a by-product of the narcotic. As far as I am aware, everybody has pleasant, strange, dreams while under the influence of narcotics. I don't experience any particular "high" while fully conscious but, dreams are a whole 'nuther ball game.
Now it's 07:00. The Other Denizens of this here building will be stirring soon. Thank Gawd for good headphones and Pete Townshend, solo. I'm listening to "Scoop," which is a wonderful recording. I think that what I like the most about Pete's Solo Works is that he gets full Artistic License on the projects. The guitar and vocal work are "out front" and nearly flawless. There's some good piano work as well.
Stage 21 of Le Tour de France racing today. The "Flat Stage." Greipel and Cavendish favored to win the whole show. I used to like to go really fast on expensive bicycles, until I had a wreck that broke 30+ bones on my left side. I have a slight limp and my neck and back hurt ALL THE FUCKING TIME because of that wreck. Hit my head so hard, I couldn't feel my left leg for 6 months. Lots of fun broken bones and torn ligaments, muscles, etc.. I'm lucky I didn't puncture a lung. I did, however, completely fracture my left scapula. Something in the left ankle got tangled up in the frame as well. The older I get, the worse it is. It took "forever" for my left collar bone to knit. There's a nice "egg" of bone fusion in there and it's 3cm shorter than my right collar bone, which fucks with my neck. That wreck also ended my Backpacking Career. I can't carry much weight on my left side. My hand/arm/shoulder go numb, quickly. So, scratch two favorite activities. I'm going to rebuild my 70's Peugeot Touring/Road Bike and sell it to a good home. It's a Classic. Not the bike I wrecked though. That was a 1990's Bridgestone MB-3. Like this:
I was doing about 25-30mph when I hit a city "road patch" that was unmarked in Salt Lake City, Utah. Just trying to get home before dark. Peddling fast and didn't "see" the road patch, I "felt" it. My front wheel slid out, I tried to "self-correct" and when I hit real pavement again, the front rim folded in half. Ass over tea kettle onto a curb and the bike, which I couldn't let go of in time, came down on my left collar bone. Left Scapula hit the top corner of the curb, completely fracturing it and I hit my head REALLY hard on the sidewalk. I didn't get to "feel" my left leg for almost six months. I don't remember much else except "waking up" and wondering if my bike was O.K.. It wasn't. I flagged down a pickup full of Mormon Kids and asked them if they'd drive me home after stopping at a State Store (liquor store) for some "medicinal use alcohol." They were accomodating. I called my friend that had pain med's for her back pain and asked if she'd bring me some. She did. Just Prescription strength Naproxen. Probably not the best thing to be mixing with alcohol and a concussion but, what the Hell? I was already as fucked up as it gets and didn't really care "what" put me to sleep. Two days later I'm at some walk-in clinic and there's a diminutively sized East Indian Doctor waving my film at me and saying: "Oh, Mister Doc, I am not to be believing that you are up, walking around and cracking with the jokes. I'm sending you to L.D.S. Hospital, right now, to see a Specialist." Believe me, I was laughing and "cracking with the jokes" to keep from crying and shitting myself from pain. More X-Rays and a 'script for Hydrocodone, 30 of 'em, with refills (2). I actually "slept" without pissing myself from rolling over onto the injuries for the first time in three nights. I was taking a 5mg pill every 4-6 hours and chasing them with a couple shots of Bourbon. Also not particularly bright, looking back on it and knowing what I know now about pain meds and alcohol. Not that I was going "all in" on the combo but, it's still a Bad Idea.
Surgery is a Crap-Shoot and have been told as much by a couple of really good Orthopedic Surgeons. One, an Admiral's Doctor/Flagship Surgeon that was, at the time, retired Navy. He gave up Private Practice and re-upped as a Commander for a sizeable re-enlistment/re-activation bonus and promotion from Lt. Commander. That's about as far as a guy's going to get in rank if he's a Surgeon. Unless you're Dr. C. Edward Koop or something. (Former Surgeon General, for you Noobs)
My Mom swears that I am held together by stitches and staples. "If they ever hit the main stitch, you'll simply unravel." She's fond of saying that. The humor is becoming lost upon my constant pain as I get older. I'll be 61 years old in a couple weeks. Allot of people lost money on my attainment of such an age. I "should have been dead" many times over. Various circumstances. I wore my nose under my left eye when I was about 11 years old, playing "beat the door and run." I forgot about the boat trailer in the neighbors' yard. Caught my right foot on electrical wiring and my nose came down solidly on the angle iron on the frame's other side. I woke up with a pool of nice, crimson, blood bigger than my head under me. I was a Porky Little Kid and had allot of inertia going for me when I hit that wiring.
I have swamped canoes in the middle of Puget Sound, braved the Gulf of Alaska and Bering Sea in 40' swells, climbed 300' trees, fell off of a mountain or three, almost drowned a couple of times, been brushed by a Bull Shark, shattered both heels, almost cut off one of my ear lobes, had my "bell rung" more than most people, broken so many ribs I've lost track of the count, been sewed up more than your average Rag Doll, etc., etc.. You starting to get a picture of this Old Body, yet? It all: "hurt so good." "Pain is just the sensation of fear leaving your body." (Old USMC adage that works pretty well, when you're young)
My Stepfather passed out when he saw the nose injury. He was kind of a Pussy when it came to blood and such. My Mom calmly went and got ice and a clean t-shirt and told me to go sit in the car, ice on nose with my head back. 20 minutes later we were at Balboa Naval Hospital. A Corpsman rushed me into the Operating Theater when he saw the extent of my injury. I got to "watch them" sew my nose back on, which was pretty interesting from underneath the surgical drape. As I age, my nose is migrating toward my left ear. I have a weird sense of "interesting." Blood doesn't bother me. I have "sewn myself up" after cutting my right heel to the bone on some razor sharp glass at a farm. The hospital was 50 miles away and I would have made it "part of the way" had I drove there. I have "welded my shoe to the floor" with electricity. "Splitting power at a buss bar." Screw driver slipped and "Blammo!" I woke up about 15' away, hair smoking. Leather soled shoe "welded" to the concrete. Wore nothing but Chuck Taylor's after that and used a rubber mat while at power boxes.
I have had to be the Amateur Veterinary Surgeon a couple of times. One of my cats on The Farm had a claw grow into his "palm" and I had to remove it. (It smelled awful) "Nuke," the cat, was eternally grateful. The Hydrogen Peroxide freaked him out. He still crapped in my favorite pair of tennis shoes if I left them laying around. He got the: "Face in shit and hissing toss into the Mill Pond" more than a few times. He knew where he was going next, after the face plant in His Own. I still Loved Him. It became a "game" and he eventually got his own pair of tennis shoes to poop into. I could go on for a half hour with these stories. What the cat shitting in my shoes has to do with my own injuries, I don't know.
Sunday means "Actual Breakfast" around here. Cottage Fries and eggs w/cheese, Sourdough toast with Marion Berry jam. Good coffee. That usually happens about 10:00.
I know a guy, let's call him: "Nick The Dick" and leave it at that. He once blurted out his opinion that: "All New Country Music sounds like Fleetwood Mac to me." I knew what he meant when he said it and I still know what he means. Nick is a Pedal Steel Guitarist. Supposedly. I've never actually heard him play. He's also a Chef that REALLY wants to be French. He dresses like he: (a) Just got out of bed and (b) Like a Circus Side Act. He really is Silly Buggers when it comes to dress codes. His "Cook's Checks" are like a bad set of Bill Blass pajamas after an LSD Sleepover. You can tell I have a "special place" in my heart for this fucker, right? He is married to a cool '60's Musician's Daughter though and does own a restaurant. No names will be mentioned. They already know who and what they are. Like most folks, they have their good and bad moments.
Anyway...He did nail it with the Fleetwood Mac comparison. Right now, I'm listening to Foster and Lloyd. That would be: Radney Foster and Bill Lloyd. Premier Nashville Studio Guys that started their own band. I, regardless of their formulaic approach to penning hit song clones, like listening to them every so often. They kind of remind me of an overly polished Everly Brothers. F&L split up as a Duo long time ago. Probably over some Big Haired Gal From Texas or some shit.
"Cotton Candy Hair," Willis Alan Ramsey would say. Willis Alan wrote The Captain and Tennille's big hit, "Muskrat Love." Ho-Hum on the C&T version. Willis' (Originally titled: "Muskrat Candlelight") is a million times better. Leon Russel plays keyboards on the original, for instance. Willis is a: "Songwriter's Singer/Songwriter." The Captain and Tennille should have NEVER gotten off of The Love Boat. Or, it could have sunk with them aboard. Nobody would have noticed. Willis Alan did one album and vanished from the music scene almost completely. Can't blame him. The Music Business Blows Dead Bears. I know this, first hand. If a $250k a year job was offered to me (with a bottle of expensive booze, fresh cut flowers and a blow job every morning) in the Music Business, I wouldn't take it. Even if I didn't have to actually "work." I hate it that much. It's like being trapped in a room full of people talking about which strain of Marijuana is the BEST. Dope lore bores the shit out of me. Dope slang bores the shit out of me. Dope bores the shit out of me. I'll take a stiff cocktail over a hit off of the finest pot in the world, any day. I totally lost interest in Marijuana back in the 80's or so. It just makes me stupid, my short term memory drips out of my ears and I'm lazy. Lots of people like it, I guess. It, The Industrial Version of Hemp, makes fine paper and clothing.
There is a major difference between Traditional Country and New Country. The Traditional form of the genre was performed on back porches or Semi Truck Trailers at County Fairs by guys with a missing tooth or two from bar fights and there were usually fast cars, Girls with too much makeup on and alcohol involved. New Country is performed on major sound stages and stadium venues, tickets cost $100.00 and everybody reeks of Axe Body Spray. There are exceptions, of course. Hank Williams III is probably missing a tooth. But, he doesn't play New Country, anyway. "Hellbilly" is more like it. I wouldn't categorize Johnny Cash as being either New or Traditional Country. He was his own genre.
I just received a great new T-Shirt from the Jim Marshall clothing line with Cash angrily giving the lens The Finger. Jim shot the photo's of Cash's Folsom Prison Shows. After the second night's show, Jim asked Johnny if he had any comments for The Warden. The Finger/Grimace/Stare Down photo was the answer. Jim was great at that shit! He NEVER "posed" his subjects. It was his signature. Johnny wasn't "acting" for the photo. It's a very Iconic Image from Marshall and Cash. I bought another shirt (Noted, last post) from the Jim Marshall T-Shirt Factory and got the Johnny Cash shirt as a schwag gift. An infamous quote: "Cars and guns have gotten me into trouble...Cameras haven't." (Which is total bullshit. Cameras have got Jim into trouble LOTS of times) On the shirt front, as noted in the post previous to this one, there is one of Marshall's Leica M-4's on it. So, this is trodden ground. Let's plow! I'd spend good money on an 11"x14" (or larger) print of the Cash photo.
Today, when the light gets to be "just right" I'm going to photograph some Dahlias in my front yard. There are some other flowers, some kind of Oriental Lily species, that need to have their portraits taken out there, too. It's overcast outside, which is light that I like. Some of the best photographs I've ever taken were in that soft, blue-ish light that only happens when it's shining through clouds/fog/mist. The shittier the weather, the more my "eye" likes it. Grey and Green, favorite colors. Grey isn't really a "color." It's a half-light. I need to start using the Nikon PAS camera I bought last month. It's pretty hot shit, for a Point And Shoot. 18 MP's and a focal length of 28-350mm equivalent. Various automatic "scenes, all that good crap that it appears Other People are so used to that they're bored. It's all new to me so, I'm not bored. Yet. I bought the thing so I didn't have to carry a film camera on two week trips away from home. Not that my Olympus OM-1n is all that HUGE or anything but, it gets heavy with film, lenses accessories, etc. and I'm always afraid that something bad is going to happen to it. It can't really be replaced. It had, literally, never been used when I bought it about 5 years ago. $75.00 with 3 lenses. It cost three times that in 1973, when first sold.
I only have two routes left to travel with any sort of regularity, North and South of this here town. Maybe Colorado at some point. I have a Buddy that lives outside of Boulder. Another World Class Rock and Roll/Cinematographic "Stills"/Portrait/Scenic Photographer. We've known eachother for about 45 years now. Other trips I'll take at the drop of a hat is to my Mom's place and Sleeve Job's Rubber Gun Ranch up in Salmon Heaven, Wa.. It's a Hollywood joke: "Rubber Gun." Do your own homework.
"Chili" and hot sausage for dinner. Good gloomy day fare. Spicy Cornbread baked in cast iron to ladle the "chili" on top of. I say "chili" because it has beans in it. Actual Chili does not have beans. Most Americans don't know that and if you served then real Chili, they'd want to know: "What happened to the rest of the 'chili'?" Yes, I am a Foodie, of sorts. My training is that of a Waiter, Bartender, Floor Manager and Saucier but, I've: "Done everything in a restaurant except own one." End result: I eat like a King and make a wicked Caucasian.
Willis Alan Ramsey:
O.K., I'm bored.. Are you bored? Sure you are. Let's flush this turd.
I tend to vacillate between killing off this thing and/or picking it up and putting it down at will. I suppose that I have decided upon the latter. Alternately, I gain and lose interest or actually have "something to say." It doesn't matter.
July has been a weird month. For me, anyway. I disdain The 4th Of July with all of its' random noise and confusion, merriment and tragedies. People blow shit up, somebody gets their eye poked out, drunks are happy and somebody's whole Family gets wiped out on the Highway. It seems to all take place within about 72 hours. I was going to go camping. I didn't. Instead, I went to the grocery and liquor stores, stocked up on provisions and just hid out at home. My neighborhood, which is usually rife with Homemade Explosions, wasn't so noisy this year. Around the 10th or so, I did some weird thing to my back and that kept me home. Which, from the standpoint of holiday social interactions that can be/usually are weird, is a "good thing." So long as there are things to cook, TV/Movies to watch and something to drink, I'm satisfied.
August is always better. For starters, my Birthday is in the first week of the month and people always send me cool shit. My Brother sent me an Uber Groovy "Travel Shaver." It recharges with a USB connection and only weighs about 2 ounces. Very cool. The only use it will ever see is during actual travelling, which should give it a happy, long life. My Mom will send me the usual $20-30 because she doesn't "get" how to shop for me and it's "easy" for her. My Friend, Sleeve Jobs, will send me something like a knife or gag gift. He knows I like both. Akbar/Jeff will totally forget about me and maybe call later to apologize. His brains ran out of his ears, years ago. Numerous websites and businesses will send me Birthday "credits" and American Spirit will send me a card and some flower seeds or a coupon for their cigarettes. Travel Shaver wins, hands down. Well done, Brutte.
I bought myself a cool T-Shirt this past month. A Jim Marshall "Cars, Guns, Cameras" shirt. On the front is a graphic of one of his iconic Leica M-4 cameras that he removed the paint covering the brass on the body from. It was kind of a signature. Jim just thought it "looked cool." It does. Jim was THE Rock and Roll Photographer. Period. 50+ Rolling Stone Magazine covers, NUMEROUS Iconic shots of Musicians (Jimi Hendrix setting his guitar on fire @ Monterrey Pop) and people like Bill Graham, TONS of Auto Racing photo's, great portraits and many, many, Album Covers. The Allman Brothers Live At The Fillmore East is one of Jim's best, in my mind. I have an interesting anecdote about Jim, of course.
My Friend, Dearly Departed, Michael Hanley, caught wind of an upcoming Starship show near Lahaina, Maui, while he, his Brother "Peter-Peter" and I were all living together on that shitty little Island. Michael had been the Drums, Keyboards and Monitors Techie for Jefferson Airplane, Jefferson Starship, Starship and probably Hot Tuna a few times. He worked for numerous other Bay Area Bands as well. Anyway...Michael calls up the J.A. Offices in San Francisco and obtains three All Access Passes for We Three Guys. We arrive early, bullshit with various members of the band and start raiding the Heineken Coolers. At some point, Michael notices that Jim Marshall, the Jeffersons' Staff Photog-At-Large, is "getting into it" with a HUGE Samoan Security Guy and grabs me and says: "Let's go rescue Jim." We are both doing our very best Sean Connery "Perhaps I may be of some assistance" schtick and we get Jim Backstage and away from the Security Dude but, Jim has already officially been "ejected from the show." We're just getting his gear packed up and finding the keys to the rental Crew Van at that point. We load Jim and his gear up and get The Hell Out Of Dodge, pointed toward Lahaina, where Jim's staying. Meanwhile, he's so pissed off that he can't remember where his hotel is. Luckily, I possess an intimate knowledge of Lahaina's back alleys and nooks and crannies, which is where Jim's Lanai Style Hotel is. We find it after about 45 minutes of cruising around, get him into his room, have a couple of Bushmills shots with him, get back into the van and haul butt back to the show, laughing our asses off the whole way.
The high point of the day/evening was meeting Papa John Creech and his Lovely Wife, who's name I can't remember now. These were the last set of shows John would ever play and his Wife died soon after the tour. That and hearing Jack Cassidy speak. (He has a peculiar voice.) Starship was using the Lahaina gig to tighten up for and relax before a full blown Asian Tour.
I ended up with Paul Kantner's S.F. 49ers ballcap after he left it by a hotel swimming pool in Ka'anapali. We tried to locate him but he'd booked the room using a pseudonym. No help there. You can't have it back Paul. It got "lost."
The Grateful Dead turns 50. Does anyone "give a shit?" Probably all the Trustifarians attending the shows. No one else. Maybe some guy named "Dick" that's still living in Grandma's Basement in The Haight.
Fuck Those Guys. "Dick" and His Basement, Trey "What's-His-Name" and whomever else shows up on that 20'x40' set of risers.
Me? I'd rather listen to Jimmy Herring, The David Nelson Band or Kark Karan. Little Feat as well. Ryland Cooder, John Hiatt or David Lindley. Right now, Jimmy Herring's on the platter. Sheeit, there are plethora better bands out there than the Grateful Dead. Not that I don't "like" them. I've certainly spent enough time listening to/working for the mugs.
Truth be told, I'd rather be watching an S.F. Giants Baseball Game than being at a Grateful Dead Show.
I "remember where I was when Jerry died" and all that Groovy Shit but, I find less fascination with those happenstances than I used to.
Tear it up, you Fuckers. Rake in the Last Cash-Out and go the fuck home.
I took a "nice little vacation" from this here thang. Although I enjoy writing, it's necessary to just "walk away" from that activity once in awhile. Plus: I hurt my back, got good and drunk (thus lowering my resistance to any kind of viruses and what have ye') and then got some kind of intestinal bug, all within three weeks. Perfect score.
I am, from time to time, tempted to just kill this thing off, as I have the other two blogs that preceded it. Nobody really reads it and it ends up being a simple tool for exorcising demons and self-talk-therapy. Which, probably means I ought to be in a Rubber Room somewhere and/or on certain medications. They don't work worth a fuck though. I'm simply not: The Happiest Guy In The World. The World bugs me. The older I get, the more I prefer the company of animals to humans. I suppose that's not a unique perspective.
I was describing my current surroundings to a friend in Seattle the other day. The cast of characters around my building changes but the core remains the same. People move in and out and the "break-in period" starts afresh. There are nine apartments and one house on the property. You estimate the number of souls inhabiting them. It changes like the weather. Johnny gets a Girlfriend, she moves in, they fight and he or she or both move out, yadda-yadda. New Tenant Boot Camp starts all over again. As of the middle of May, we also got a New landlord. Actually the guy has always owned the place "on paper" and was selling it to the Woman I rented from going on eight years ago, come February 2016. Unless the World ends or I die, some better opportunity presents itself or the joint gets "flipped" again and we get some New Person to give our money to, I'll stay. The setup right now is through a Property Management Company. They're mostly "invisible" and are just there to keep the dollars and cents straight. The New landlord is An Old Guy and he kind of needs somebody to GTM (GTM: Get The Money) and keep the books.
All three paragraphs begin with the word "I." Bad journalism. But, this is more of a "diary" than a Journal and I AM speaking in the First Person so, I guess it's alright. Stop! You're both right! It's a snack food AND a floor polish! Tastes great! Less filling! Washes your car while you're driving it home to work! Doesn't have that stale aftertaste!
Big weekend coming up next week. I plan to be out of town, resting quietly in some campground, far away from the Noise and Haste. I truly disdain fireworks. Haven't liked them since I was a Kid. People drive into the adjoining states and pick up illegal fireworks and then have themselves a Big Ole' Party at the neighbors' expense. It usually lasts about a week. I've heard a few 'splosions already. The BIG GUNS are still being held in reserve for next Saturday night. Like I said, I plan to be in a State Campground, where there are no fireworks allowed. It will be mostly quiet. I favor the Hiker/Biker type of Campgrounds, the ones without screaming Kids and obnoxiously drunk "Adults." Those Campgrounds a markedly "cheaper" than your average West Coast State Park as well. A Campsite in Northern California runs about $40.00 a night now, with a motor vehicle. Somebody always gets their "eye poked out" or worse, anyway. I wouldn't let myself be anywhere near a highway on that weekend either. Amatuer Hour with 1.5 tons of metal travelling at high speed. Pinball with trucks and cars. No thank you, I'll take a Shuttle Bus.
This morning's listening, the "live" version:
The album version:
I'll take Anders camping with me over the 4th. The album stuff. I have it on tape and CD. I'll take the tape so I can carry my Sony Sports "Mega Bass" Walkman with me. It has a good radio in it and the battery life is good. I've owned one of those things since the late 80's and never found anything as rugged or better sounding.
Sometimes, dogs bark for no reason at all. "Anonymous Sources" excite them. A passing Human's steps find their ears/paws, whatever. I'm not real clear on "what" alerts dogs. Smells, probably. It's just a guess, though.
Yesterday, I passed a Dog. First, it was rather afraid of me. Then, as I held my hand out, to let him get a sniff of my mitt, until he became more aggressive. That doesn't really bother me. I was raised around more Dogs than Humans, I like to say. Shepherds, Dobermanns, crosses. Mostly good Dogs. The oft Baddie. "Culls."
I bought The Dog, with aggressive behavior, some biscuits. Hopefully, we will create a relationship that results in kindness and empathy. If Dogs are capable of "Empathy," that is. If Humans are, as well. I like to think of myself as capable of such emotion. That I ascribe similar emotion to an animal such as a Dog, is up for grabs.
I think that my favorite Dog, ever, was a pooch that "just showed up" one day. A "Cock-A-Poo" that I decided should be named: "Itchy Brother," after the character from "King Leonardo and His Friends." A mangy lion that had less common sense than a soft brick. Itchy proved that initial assessment false. He earned his due driving the varmints out of the vegetable garden and becoming a wonderful companion. Itchy's hugs would warm the soul over many Winter evenings. He was a good companion in the cab of my J-D 955/Cat D8H, in the coal pit @ -40 Fahrenheit. Everybody needs a Buddy to share the Grateful Dead with at 04:00, when it's freezing' ass cold.
Some things warm my soul. They may be a Dog, a cool breeze, a breath of fresh air or anything. Such is the Human Condition. Not having shit blow up in my neighborhood is at the top of my list. People NOT speaking as though they need 100Db to get their message across is another. I think a guy named Max Ehrmann wrote it, in 1952, which surprises me. It is often attributed to various other authors at a much earlier time.
The full Missive:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
I tend to avoid The Loud and prefer the quiet.
Unless, it's THIS kind of loud:
Or, a Dog named: "Itchy Brother" who keeps good company in the middle of the night and warms his side of the cabin of said machine.
